


Temporary Blindness

by Shinigaminx



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinigaminx/pseuds/Shinigaminx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is injured on a mission and spends 10 days without his sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temporary Blindness

"Cheese, you need to come in." Phil speared his phone with an incredulous look before turning back to the monitors spread out in front of him. "There's a quin-jet coming to pick you up, you just need to get to the extraction point." On screen, Heims finished scaling the outside of a high-rise office building and began to cut through a window. Phil carefully eyed the alarm system, ready to tell Heims the second they tripped. "I'm kinda busy here, Nick."

A sigh from the speaker. "Phil. Sitwell is on the jet, he's going to replace you. You need to come back."

An itching feeling started at the base of Phil's spine and crept up, making him shiver. Fury sounded.... almost hesitant. Like he was hiding something. And he was calling him Cheese. There was something seriously wrong. 

"Nick, this isn't like the Balkans, is it?" Code for a mission gone incredibly, spectacularly wrong, when Nick had been captured. Phil and the rest of their Ranger group had brought off what should have been a suicide mission to rescue him.

"No. And thank you for bringing -that- memory up." There was a heavy paused, then- "It's Barton. He's hurt. You should be here when he wakes up."

Phil's stomach lurched sickeningly to the left, and the headset hit the desk. Two hours to get a quin-jet to him, the same back, half an hour to brief Sitwell in the middle, however long Clint had been under before Nick decided to call him- knowing Nick, it had taken him several hours- either they were holding him under, or he was badly hurt. Very badly. "I'm on my way, Boss."

 

~*~

Clint woke up in the hospital.

Slowly, the swirling blackness in his head coalesced into something resembling order. Scratchy sheets, an iv in his hand, a dress with no back on it, soft beeping.... Yup, he was in the medical wing again. From the pure darkness, it had to be about 3 am. Wait- that didn't feel quite right. Clint's internal clock spun a few times, and couldn't come up with a better time estimate. Great, that meant another concussion. Probably a pretty bad one, if he didn't miss his guess. Slowly he rolled his head to the side, looking for a monitor with a time on it. The dizziness he expected didn't rush him, but he felt something pull. He had a bandage of some kind wrapping his head, and the tension he'd chalked up to the concussion- no, he had something over his eyes.

His heart rate jumped, and he jerked his hands up to rip the bandages off, when another set of hands grabbed his wrists. Instinctively, he shoved at them while scrabbling to get his sight back. The unseen hands fought him, pushed him back into the bed and yanked his hands over his head.

"Barton." A voice he knew. "Barton, stop fighting me. It's ok, I've got you."

Coulson. Calm, quiet, strong, and close. Clint huffed out a breath as all the fight drained out of him. The sudden relaxation put the man standing over him off-balance and he landed on Clint's chest, still holding his hands over his head. Clint fought not to swear. He also had a couple of bruised or busted ribs on one side, apparently.

"Gee, sir, take a guy out to dinner first, why dont'cha?" He heard a low chuckle and felt breath against his ear, before Coulson spoke again. He shivered at the sound of the older man's voice so close.

"If I thought I could take you anywhere public, I might." The weight shifted off his bruised ribs, and he sucked in a deep breath too fast and choked. The hands restraining him abruptly pulled him to a sitting position, but didn't relax the iron grip around his wrists. The coughing fit sputtered out. He panted quietly and waited for Coulson to say something.

"Better now?"

"Yes, sir."

They sat and breathed together for a moment. Clint resisted the urge to lean into his handler's familiar warmth. Coulson finally broke the silence.

"I'm going to let go and get you water. Do. not. touch. these." One hand dropped away and touched the bandages at Clint's temple. WIth Clint's small nod, Coulson released him and stood up. Abruptly, Clint was alone in the dark again. He reached out frantically. His hand smacked into Coulson's stomach and grabbed onto his shirt. 

Hands on his shoulders pressed him back again, but this time, the bed was tilted so he could sit up. "You're fine, Hawkeye, I'm not leaving you. I'm right here. You need water." The calm voice was the same one that had guided him through a hundred long missions. He could trust Coulson. He had to trust him. "I don't need water, sir, I need a beer."

That earned him another chuckle. "Right now, you get water. Sit still for a minute. We'll negotiate alcohol later-" 

"Promise?"

"Barton, I'm going to gag you if you keep interrupting me," the hands pulled away slowly, but Coulson kept talking. "How much do you remember from the end of the mission? We have you on camera, but the surgeon wasn't sure you'd remember everything. The bed shifted again, Coulson's warmth returning. A cool plastic glass was pushed into his hand. "Drink this. Slowly. You took a hell of a hit to the head, do you remember it?"

Clint sipped slowly, and sorted through his jumbled memories. Taking the shot, scrambling off the building while breaking down his rifle, slinging the case over his shoulder and pulling on his helmet, then.... nothing. "I've got everything until I get on the motorcycle, sir, then it's all a blank." A low sigh next to him. "Boss?"

"That's good news, actually." Clint knew this tone of voice. This was Coulson trying to find a gentle way to break bad news. And swearing in his head, since it wouldn't be professional to swear out loud. "You're only missing about 3 minutes. The surgeon thought it would be more. You go on the bike, but two cars followed you. One car opened fire, and you dealt with that, but the other car got in front of you....."

As Coulson narrated, memory started to filter back. A grey car, and a black one. Someone leaning out of the black one, a handgun pointed at him. Where did the grey car go? He shook his head sharply, frustrated with the fuzziness of the recollection. A searing pain shot through his head, from his left eye to somewhere behind his ear. Coulson's hand were on him again, holding his head steady, cuping the sides of his face, strangely gentle.

"Don't do that, you're going to hurt yourself. It took them three hours to put all the pieces back where they belong."

"What?" Clint's blood ran cold. "Sir- what happened after that?" Another sigh.

"The passenger in the second car hit you. With a pipe. He caved in the side of your helmet, shattered the visor, and you lost control of the bike. Fortunately, we already had a team moving to intercept. They scooped you up and brought you here." Another brief pause and Coulson continued. "You have one fractured rib, and two bruised ones, from hitting the ground. Minor road-rash, a sprained wrist, and a fairly serious concussion."

Clint snorted. "I've gotten worse than that sparring with baby agents. Why did they do surgery on my head?" As he asked, he put the glass down and put his his hands to his head. Coulson intercepted him on the way and held his wrists again. "What did I tell you, Agent? Don't touch." Clint grinned. There was his handler. A bit brief, a bit irritated that Clint never could follow instructions, and a bit amused in spite of himself.

"Well, we finally have proof that your head isn't the hardest thing in the known universe." Clint could hear the smile in his voice. "You have several skull fractures, and they had to put in a small plate where the bone was shattered. When the visor shatter- When it shattered, you got several pieces in your eyes."

There was a roaring in his ears, and suddenly the only solid thing in the universe was Coulson's grip on his wrists. "Agent. Barton. Clint- you're going to be ok." It sounded like he was listening from underwater. "Clint. You're going to be fine. It's only temporary. You're going to see just fine. Clint, breathe. Here, in, out, just breathe." Coulson put one of Clint's hand on his chest and took long, slow breaths. His breathing evened out in response, and the heartbeat pounding in his ears receded.

"How long?"

Clint could see Coulson's grimace in his mind's eye. "Ten days. Just to let things heal. You have to keep the bandages on till then. The eyes are sympathetic, if you move one, you'll move the other, which is why both of yours are covered."

"But my sight will be good after that?" Clint hated himself for how pathetic he sounded, but seriously. A blind sniper? What could be more useless.

"It ought to be." Ought to be. That meant they weren't sure. Clint swore, and said as much.

"Well, you had the best eyesight anyone has ever seen, so they aren't completely sure what to expect. But you will be able to see, you'll be able to shoot, you'll be fine." Clint swallowed around an unexpected bitter taste. Fine might be stretching the truth if his eyesight was at all impaired. He was very aware that merely decent snipers were a dime a dozen. What he could do was better. Or had been. He scowled.

"And what do they expect me to do for the next ten days? Sit here and twiddle my thumbs? Seriously, sir- I can't stay in medical for ten days." Next to him, he felt Coulson laugh silently.

"I told Fury you'd say that. As soon as the doctor clears you, you can go home. They are going to send a nurse with you though." Clint groaned. "Aww, come on sir, really? I don't need a babysitter!" Again with the silent laugh.

"Says the man who couldn't tie his shoes on his own right now." Clint grinned and proved that even if he couldn't tie his shoes, he could still shove someone off a bed. He leaned out over where Coulson was probably laying on the ground laughing and raised an eyebrow. "You were saying, sir?"

 

~*~

Phil stood just inside the closed door, watching Clint. He moved carefully, slowly, into the space. His head swiveled as if he could see his surroundings. Hesitantly, he reached out and ran his fingers over a bookshelf, and fingered the spines. He toe'd his sneakers off and kicked them towards a table with several other pairs of shoes underneath. They landed in the pile with the rest of them. In the same motion, he threw the keys in his hand towards the bowl on the table. Head cocked, he listened to the sound as they rattled to a stop. Clint grinned, and Phil let out the breath he'd been holding and smiled. Of course- that made Clint jump and spin around and almost fall over. Phil reached out and steadied him.

"Sorry, I don't have people over too often. It's a little weird having someone in my space." Clint trailed off, as if he realized he might have offended his handler. Phil shrugged, then remembered Clint couldn't see him.

"It's fine. I'll get out of here in the morning." He still wasn't sure how Clint had talked him into spending the night. Well, yes, he was. When the doctor had insisted someone had to stay, at the very least for the first night, Clint had paled at the thought of a stranger sleeping in his house. He hadn't admitted it, no, he'd tried to insist that he just didn't need help, but Phil wasn't stupid. 6 years later, he thought that some days he could read the archer pretty well. 

Clint grimaced. "I didn't mean it like that. You're welcome to stay as long you want. It's just... different." With that, he set off carefully down the hall. Over his shoulder he called back, a smirk in his voice. "You have to sleep on the couch till you buy me dinner though!"

Phil couldn't help it. He broke into a wide grin. Hell, at least this way, the archer couldn't see how often Phil watched him, and how often he made him smile.

Oh man- he was fucked.

~*~

Clint walked down the hall, listening for a response from his handler. When he didn't hear one, he mentally shrugged and felt his way into his bedroom. He promtly ran into..... something. He cursed as he fell, twisting so he didn't land on his bruised ribs or bad wrist, and banged his elbow into.... something else. Ok, maybe he needed to clean his bedroom more often. Oh god- Phil was going to see his bedroom. And it was filthy. While Clint had imagined Phil here plenty of times, it was always immaculate in his imagination. And he'd never imagined not being able to see the look on his face, the way his body would look while Clint undressed him- And that was enough of that. The only thing that would make being helpless and ridiculous around his boss worse, would be inappropriate stiffies. This was already going to suck in some incredibly interesting ways. Clint groaned. He couldn't even keep from making bad jokes in his head. He let his head drop backwards and it hit.... something? He groaned again. This was going to get really, really old very quickly.

~*~

Phil dropped the bag with Clint's things and laid his bow case on the couch and hurried down the hall. The thud from Clint's fall had sounded painful, and the cursing, while reassuring, tended to support that theory. He looked through the open door and had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing.

"Very funny, boss. Little help here?"

Clint was sprawled on the floor, one foot over the case he'd probably tripped over, and half covered in a stack of books he'd managed to knock over. Phil reached down and grabbed his good wrist and pulled him up. Clint stumbled and Phil rushed to support his weight, before guiding him down onto the edge of the bed. That done, he took a good look around the room. The over-riding theme of the apartment seemed to be.... books. They covered every surface in the small living room, and they filled the shelves next to the bed. The stack that Clint had knocked over was only one of several scattered throughout the apartment. Phil did a slow to turn to take in all the details, and realized that Clint was staring at him. Well, sort of. The sightless white gaze was actually a little creepy. He was going to have to do something about that.

"Well?" The archer sounded defensive.

"It looks like you. Clint- I knew you like to read, but I didn't know you read this much." He shrugged. "You're going to kill yourself in this room though." Phil did a second slow scan, this time seeing the weapons hidden around the room. "Maybe literally, if you fell wrong." Clint laughed.

"Right, boss, like your house is any better." Phil smiled again, and shook his head.

~*~

Clint was drowning. The cold, dark water rushed over his head, and he sunk like a stone. He thrashed wildly, but only sunk faster. His lungs began to burn, and he gasped. The water filled his mouth, gagging him, choking, the salt taste of it overwhelming-

"Barton! Barton, breathe! Clint, please breathe, it's just a dream. Can you hear me now? Take a breath, damn it." Phil. Close. Those were Phil's hands on his shoulders, shaking him. Phil's voice, low, urgent, Phil's breath ghosting over his cheek. Clint raised his hands, touching Phil's shoulders, his neck, his face, reassuring himself that the other man was really there. The trembling slowly eased, but persistent darkness didn't help at all. Phil continues talked, slower now, his voice gentle.

"It was just a dream. You were just dreaming. You're in your room, in your bed, you're safe, I've got you." They were the same words Clint heard the last time he woke up and he let out a shuddering laugh before collapsing against Phil's shoulder.

"We've got to stop meeting like this." Clint felt the chuckle more than he heard it, but it made him feel better. Then he realized that he was leaning against Phil. His boss Phil. Who was really Agent Coulson. And he was wearing nothing but boxers. He didn't know what Phil was wearing, but it definitely didn't include a shirt. Shit. He bolted upright. A fleeting thought crossed his mind. He would be blind when Phil was finally shirtless in his bed. He had the best luck ever.

"Clint?"

"Uh... yeah, boss?"

Phil laughed. "Stop moving backwards. You're going to fall off the bed." Clint carefully extended a hand behind him and found the edge of the bed. It was only about 6 inches from his ass. Yeah, that would have been embarrassing. A hand gently encircled his wrist and tugged him closer to the middle of the bed. 

"Stay here. I'll make tea. Unless...." he trailed off. "If you want to go back to sleep, I can go back out to the living room?" 

Clint shook his head and laughed. "Yeah, no. I'm up now. But you can go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you up." Phil snorted. "I don't know if I have any tea, but you're welcome to look, if you want." He felt the bed shift and Phil moved away from him. Briefly, he panicked at being alone in the dark again. He resisted the urge to reach for the other man, but he must have done something because he heard Phil pause.

"I'm fine, go." Phil's footsteps padded out into the hall and Clint flopped over on the bed. He huffed out an irritated sigh. Yup, this was old already.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> If the premise amuses you, and you'd like to be a beta, please let me know! Any editing errors are currently my own. This is my first fic in several years, so I'm a bit rusty. Any constructive criticism is cheerfully accepted! There is smut in later chapters.


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